


Scars

by D (Crazyrat909)



Series: Doki Doki AU (Alternate Universe) [2]
Category: Doki Doki Literature Club! (Visual Novel)
Genre: Bullying, Crying, Masturbation, Mental Health Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 22:47:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16921878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazyrat909/pseuds/D
Summary: "I’m a monster…I’m a monster…I’m a monster…And now she knows it too…"- Yuri NakamuraThe story of Yuri Nakamura, an antisocial bookworm with a terrifying secret that threatens to take control of her life.





	Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! This is my second submission to the Archive. I wanted to place a trigger warning at the start of this work. Due to central theme of the story dealing with mental health and graphic depictions of self harm, I wanted to place a message, that although this is just a story, self harm and suicide are real issues that should not go unrecognized. If you or a loved one are having suicidal thoughts or are thinking of committing suicide, don't wait, please call the national suicide prevention hotline at 1-800-273-8255.
> 
> With that said, I hope you all enjoy.
> 
> -D

**Scars**

Thirteen. I was only thirteen years old. That was the first time I remember discovering the heavenly bliss that my unique habit brings to me. I remember the first cut like it was yesterday. The fear I felt upon witnessing the sight of my own blood, watching helplessly as it formed at the site of my wound, contrasting against my pale white skin. The sickness I felt as the crimson nectar slid down my naked forearm, past my trembling hand, and onto the bathroom floor. The overwhelming regret I felt upon rinsing off my damaged arm, revealing the wound I had just created on my own body…and the shame that led me to do it again…and again, and again, and again, and again…

            As far back as I can recall, I was always considered to be a very unusual child. My parents took notice of my natural tendency to conceal myself during public gatherings early in my childhood. My natural love of literature and dislike for social interaction had caused me to isolate myself to the point of becoming immensely antisocial for my age. Growing up, I was told that I had always been infatuated with literature, even at the young age of two years old. My mother tells me that while I was growing within the confines of her womb, she would place headphones on her belly, so I could listen to storybooks as I developed. She claimed that the vibrations would make their way to my brain and cause me to be more intelligent. Unbeknownst to her, this would become both a blessing and a curse upon her unborn child.

My parents began to worry that my antisocial personality would cause me to have a difficult time at any public school they would put me in, not being able to maintain a healthy social life without succumbing to the stress of losing my sense of solitude. This fear had culminated in the decision to allow me to be home schooled until I “grew out of it”.

            Unfortunately, this separation from society, and dare I say reality, had caused me to grow into somewhat of a recluse. I despised social interaction of any kind, even growing to hate my tutor, as well as my parents for forcing me to come out of my room and be around another person, despite my deep love and respect for them. By the age of 12, my parents felt that I had become far too old to continue being home schooled, and that if I were to become a functional member of society then I would have to learn to be comfortable associating with other people.

They had enrolled me into a public middle school the following year, a decision that caused me to breakdown in front them upon hearing the news, something I hadn’t done since I was an infant. I dreaded the thought of leaving the comfort of my own home. Of being tossed head first into the lion’s den to fend for myself without my family to protect me. I remember bawling my eyes out the entire car ride leading up to the school, whereupon my parents lead me to the classroom, kissed me goodbye, and left me all alone for the first time I can remember.

            Looking back, my first month of instruction had been rather easy. I would come to school, keep my head down and my mouth shut, then come home where I could read in peace. This had all changed however, when the vicious occupants of my homeroom class had begun to take notice of me as I was forced to participate in class activities, making small but noticeable remarks about my figure, my hair, my hobbies, and anything else they found abnormal about me.

Unlike today, I was not considered to be an aesthetically pleasing girl. I had much shorter hair, only reaching down to my shoulder blades, my breasts were hardly noticeable even for a girl my age, and worst of all I was exceedingly chubby for a 13-year-old. My weight had become the signature talking point for the cackling hyenas I shared my adolescence with, resulting in counting days spent crying in my room, and endless amounts of shouting matches between my parents and I about going to school.  The students had not taken long to find their mark, and it seemed that I had unwittingly become the lightning rod for all their hormonal vitriol and teenage angst.

            All the negativity had eventually come to a climax, as I was preparing to introduce my literature project to the class. I was to perform a written essay based on one of the chosen novels assigned to us over the course of the first semester (a book that I had happily finished within the first week). I had a wonderful time crafting the essay, savoring the thought of demonstrating my vast, intricate vocabulary for my instructor, Mrs. Aiko. She had never been shy when it came to expressing her love for my writings, flattering me in front of the other students for my literary expertise, something that would eventually have me branded as the “teacher’s pet”, further increasing the amount of daily harassment I received from my peers. I took a deep breath as my name was called, then made my way to the front of the class, ignoring the comments that were made about me as I passed by the other children.

            Silence…that was all filled the room as I stood in front of the blackboard. I glanced past my essay to look at my classmates, who were busy snickering and joking among one other as I prepared to speak. All the confidence that I had regarding my writing had wavered, and I was growing more and more anxious about starting, prompting Mrs. Aiko to make her way over to me. As she knelt to match my height, she began whispering softly to me, telling me that if I was nervous, that I should try reading as though I were the only person in the room. To this day, I can still remember the comfort I felt from hearing her say this, as though in this sea of hungry sharks, I had just been thrown a life preserver, saving me from my imminent demise.

Taking a breath, I began to speak. The words flowed from my lips, like the rushing of an unwavering stream. My diction, perfect and precise. My delivery, biting and sharp, yet all of it comforting and smooth due to the gentle nature of my voice. As I became more and more involved in my speech, I began to fall in love with the feeling I received from expressing myself. I had finally felt as though I could reveal who I truly was, like I could finally let down my walls, unafraid of what people would see inside.

That was…until I heard it.

            A sharp, deliberate yawn from one the girls sitting in the front row in an obvious attempt to embarrass me without drawing too much attention to herself. As hard as I fought to ignore the childish act, the chuckling that ensued had caused me to begin stammering, a nervous tick that had plagued my speech for years. As I looked over to Ms. Aiko to get her to do something, I looked back at the essay, realizing that in my frustration I had lost my place. As I struggled in vain to pick up where I left off, I could feel the hot, stinging tears begin to form in the corners of my eyes, causing the children to pipe up yet again.

            “Oh my God she’s crying!”

            A roar of laughter had resulted from the comment, causing all the confidence I had felt previously to vanish. I felt as though I had let down my walls and opened myself to the world, only to be stabbed in the heart in return, betrayed by those who had been waiting for this very moment for months.

            I could no longer feel the rush that came from the words that danced upon my tongue, nor could I feel the burning hatred that bubbled in my gut like a viscous, frothing stew. All I felt was the embarrassment of letting myself believe that I could be anything but a fat, disgusting freak, and the tears rolled their way down my cheeks, dripping off my chin as though it were a busted faucet. Without a second thought, I bolted out of the classroom, leaving my passionate work fluttering to the ground as the echoing shouts of my teacher reprimanding the little devils flowed throughout the halls.

            My parents came into the school that day and picked me up early, as I refused to go back to the classroom after my outburst. They had allowed me to stay in my room as they discussed their next course of action. All I wanted after that display was to be alone for the rest of my life. No matter where I chose to go from here, it was evident that my presence would be all but desired. I had been trapped, like a rat stuck in a maze with no exits, left to charge towards a goal that had never existed to begin with.

It was in this moment of desperation, that a strange memory had invaded my mind. I had read a horror story, whose title I can no longer remember, about a young girl who had been rejected by her hateful society for her love of another woman. Her forbidden passion had caused her to become excommunicated from her church, disowned by her family, and left to fend for herself against a world that seemed to want her dead. I recalled that she had a very unusual habit, where every time she felt upset, she would take a blade from her purse, and begin harming herself with it. She told her lover that it was painful, but after the physical pain was gone, so too was the pain she felt from her loneliness. I thought this sounded a lot like myself… and that’s when I got an idea.

            That night, while my parents were fast asleep, I snuck my way into the kitchen, grabbing the first blade I could find from the knife drawer, and retreated to the bathroom. Pulling up the sleeve of my pajama top, I laid the steel blade to my forearm and took a deep breath.

For a moment, a wave of nausea had struck me as I began to question what the Hell I was doing. I had realized how asinine the idea of harming myself to feel better truly was, and that doing so would only create a set of problems far more damaging than a couple of bullies could cause me.

To think, that if this thought had come to me a few minutes earlier, before the blood began seeping from my freshly opened skin and trickled down my shaking arm, that things may have been different.

            The story was a lie.

            I did not feel any better after what I had done. In fact, the only things I had felt were shame, regret, and the stinging pain running along my forearm. I cursed myself for doing something so stupid. For thinking that something from a story book could fix all my problems. As I made my way to the sink to wash away my mistake, I began to peer at myself in the mirror, taking in all my most hated features. For a moment I no longer saw the face of Yuri Nakamura, I saw the face of a monster. The face of a child whom society had chosen to reject without a second thought. A face that belonged to a mistake, to a joke.  

            Suddenly, a new sensation began to flood my body. All the hatred, all the loathing that I had felt for those who had treated me as though I could never be normal, I began to feel toward myself. I felt as though everything I’d gone through, even what I felt on that fateful day, had been nothing more than the result of being the failure I was, and that I deserved every second of my suffering.

            I felt this deep, burning hatred within myself, as I took the blade to my skin yet again…

            Over the years, I had developed in an extraordinary way. No longer did I have the appearance of the chubby, blubbering goblin I had been during my time spent in middle school. My hair had grown at an unprecedented rate, and as though it had happened overnight, I acquired a set of hair that could rival that of Rapunzel’s. The rest of my body had matured as well. Over the course of two years I had grown about a foot taller, putting my height at a solid 5’5’’. Along with this, my breasts had dropped 3 whole letter grades, taking them from a measly A cup, to a gargantuan D cup. Despite all this, even while my male classmates attempted to court me, or my female classmates expressed their undying envy, nothing could change how I saw myself. For in my eyes I had been little more than a monster, and as such I decided to continue my self-mutilation, as a form of repentance for what I had become.

And yet… as I chose to continue my “punishments”, a distressing revelation had struck me. The pain I felt from taking the blade to my body had all but disappeared, and in its place, a unique pleasure that I can’t describe, even with an ever-growing vocabulary at my disposal. If I had to choose a word to explain what I felt, it would only be fitting to describe it as... **Euphoric.**

Initially it was something that I had feared. I felt as though there was something seriously wrong with me, that no normal person should be feeling this way as a result of hurting themselves. But I remembered, I wasn’t normal, I was anything but normal, and after a few months the thought began to die away, along with any reservations I held when it came to ripping my body apart.

It had no longer been a punishment for me, this disgusting act had become a hobby, a habit, a quirk that only someone as fucked up as I am could possibly understand. It had become a daily ritual for me, a beautiful sensation that shook my body to its core, it was almost like masturbation, an activity that ironically enough I had all but given up. The short, pathetic orgasms received while pleasuring myself were nothing compared to the sensation I felt from ruining my innocent body, bathing in every second the blade danced across my fragile ivory skin as I would become an artist of sorts, dragging my brush across the empty canvas to form a terrifying work of art. And yet, this unique view of my self-mutilation came with a thought. How utterly boring was it to paint with only a single brush? My art was beautiful, and such a high art demanded a tool that matched the value of the canvas it touched upon.

Around my junior year of high school, I had begun crafting an impressive collection of specially manufactured knives for this very reason, a rather expensive habit that resulted in me being forced to acquire a job at a local bookstore in my neighborhood. The increased amount social interaction that I was forced to put up with was irritating, but it was all so worth it, just so I could experience the thrilling sensation of acquiring a brand-new blade. The rush I would feel every time I came home with a brand-new tool to rape my beautiful skin with, itching to test how it draws upon my body, shaking in anticipating for the sharp point to violate me as I succumb to its cold, steel touch was, to put it simply, orgasmic.

It was a drug. This curse that afflicted me was like a drug, and I loved in every fucking second of it.

I’m currently finishing up my senior year of high school, and thankfully I’ve been able to push past some of the anxiety I battled with by joining a club filled with people who shared my unyielding love of literature. They’ve been more than accepting of my lack of social skills (well, most of them) and have been more than happy to allow me to decorate the clubroom with certain therapeutic objects to help me feel more comfortable, such as my tea set and essential oil diffuser.

Along with joining the Literature Club, I’ve also managed to craft a schedule for the school week, to keep myself from feeling overwhelmed by my daily responsibilities. On an average school day, I would wake up, cut, take a shower, then eat before heading to school. After my first few classes, I would cut in the bathroom during lunchtime, then go to the Literature club after classes have ended. From there, after we’ve shared poems I would excuse myself to the bathroom to cut myself again before I go home, do my schoolwork, perform some light exercises, cook dinner, and cut one last time before I read and went to bed. For the last few months, it’s worked like a dream, and with only a few exceptions, my days have been fairly stress free.

Today however, Monika decided it would be a good to start sharing our poems early due to the upcoming midterm exams, telling us that she “didn’t want the club to interfere with our studying.” This had somehow slipped my mind, and upon realizing that I’d have to hold off on my cutting until I got home, I began to feel uneasy.

 As the other girls went to retrieve their poem, I decided to put away my tea set. The time I would spend putting my porcelain possessions back into the closet would give me enough time to catch my breath and calm myself down, away from the prying eyes of the my clubmates. I carried the floral-patterned pot to the closet, placing it on the shelf slightly above my head as I closed my eyes and began to breathe deeply. All I need to do is focus on something other than cutting. I Just need to focus on my breathing…breath in…breath out…breathe in… brea-

**‘CRASH!’**

My eyes snap open, startled by the loud noise that erupted near my feet. Like an idiot, I had released my grip on the tea pot too early and allowed gravity to hurl it to the ground. I turn towards the other girls, who had also been alarmed by the sound of the shattering teapot. I felt my skin began to heat up as I attempted to quell their continuous inquiries as to what was going on in the closet. Between the heat of the classroom and the anxiety I was struggling in vain to keep under control, I began viciously sweating as I knelt to reach for the shattered pieces of the pot. It feels like everything is falling apart, this is going terribly, I just need a moment from everyone else, that’s all I need. Once I pick up the pieces I’m going to the bathroom, I don’t care if I can’t share my poem I need to go right now I can’t stay here I just need to go I need to leave right now I can’t stay I c-

...My hand.

One of the porcelain shards just pricked my hand…

It was just a little cut. Not even the size of a pin prick…

But it was enough…

Fuck I need it. I need it so bad…

**_I need it now._ **

Without a word, I push past Sayori who had come over to see what was happening, and swing open the classroom door, ignoring the questioning pleas from my fellow classmates. I make it to the bathroom and lock myself inside the stall. I just need a little, just one. Just one is all I need then I’ll head back to the clubroom. I reach into my purse and pull out my designer butterfly knife. I don’t even take time to admire its beauty as I rip off my blazer and raise my sleeve to reveal my pleading skin to the air. I take the blade to my wrist. I just need one. Just one. Just one. I inhale sharply as I slice the blade across my skin. I watch as the blood begin flowing from…

Oh fuck...

I just need one more.

Oh, fuck yeah… one more

Just one more

Just one more

One more, more, more, deeper, deeper, oh God I want to bleed, make me fucking bleed, I need it. I can’t stop. Please. More. _More_. _More_. **_More._** **_More more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more more_** …

 

 

I check my phone and realize that it’s well past the time we generally take for sharing our poems. I know I’ll have to think up another excuse for my sudden disappearance. Maybe I’ll just tell them that I had a panic attack and had to be by myself for a while, they’ll probably buy that, they always do…

I stand up shakily, still feeling light headed from my loss of blood, and exit the stall. Making a b-line straight for the sink, I begin washing my arm, ridding myself of the sins I had just committed. As I turn to gather some paper towels, I notice Natsuki standing a few feet away from me, staring at me with a troubling expressing on her face, as though she were stuck in a trance, hypnotized by some- oh. Oh God…

She’s looking at my arm. Oh god now she knows…

In a panic, I cover my arm as quickly as I can, my fresh undershirt ruined by my crimson regret, as I stare awkwardly at the pink haired girl. We continue to look at each other for a what felt hours, as I attempted to push through my foggy haze to think of something, anything I can say to diffuse the situation.

“Uh…” Natsuki began to speak. “Mo…Monika said she needs to talk to you once…you’re done.”

I’m only capable of responding with an empty “OK”. After a minute, Natsuki begins to back away from me, her judgmental gaze never leaving my injured arm. As her back hits the door she noticeably winces, before rushing out of the bathroom.

All I can do is stand in that spot. All I can do is stand and think about what I’ve done. About what she had just seen. About who she’s going to tell. About what going to happen next. Will she tell my parents, will my parents disown me? Maybe if I talk to Natsuki I can tell her to… maybe if I call my parents and…what if. What. Why…why is this happening to me. I had always been so careful… I can’t take this, I need it… I need it again, I can’t handle this.

I rush back into the stall, slipping as I made my way back to the toilet seat, falling into a blotchy puddle of my own blood. I rise to my feet yet again, pushing past the pain in my head, and sit down as I pull my blade out of my purse. I place the blade against my forearm as I…

I drop the blade to the ground, causing a sharp clinking sound to echo throughout the walls of the bathroom. I take a good, long look at my arm, taking in the mutilated battleground that I’ve created over the past five years. Every scar, every cut. New and old, deep and light. In that moment, I was frozen in time. It feels as though for the first time in five years I’m finally seeing myself as I truly am, like for half a decade, someone else had been living within the confines of my tattered flesh, taking control of my every action, inflicting these wounds upon me for their own sadistic pleasures. But there was no one else. This was me…

This isn’t art… this isn’t beautiful…this is… I don’t know what this is. I don’t understand what’s happening. When did I let it get this bad? Why am I like this? What do I do…

I cover my mouth after realizing how loudly I’d just been crying. In a fit of hysteria, I fall from the seat onto the cold bloodied ground, cradling my legs into my chest as I weep uncontrollably. This isn’t who I am… I don’t want this to be like this…someone...anyone…Mom…Dad…Mrs. Aiko…God…please help me… what have I become?     

I’m a monster…

I’m a monster…

I’m a monster…

And now she knows it too…

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading. I apologize if the ending of this was far more upsetting than my last works, but I plan to turn these stories into series, so Yuri will eventually get a happy ending. Stay tuned if you're interested, but otherwise, have a great day!
> 
> -D


End file.
